


a well oiled machine.

by xavierly



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: ALMOST nsfw but not quite, Angst, F/M, Historical Accuracy, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know how to tag anything, Implied Sexual Content, Nightmares, SO, as is the case any time i write Anything: i'm going to hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:48:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4844732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xavierly/pseuds/xavierly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the one where gaby and illya want to help each other but have no idea how. they also fight about the fucked up things the germans did to the russians, and vice versa.</p><p>triggers include: implied sexual assault (mentioned, and not about either character included), mentions of death, mentions of violence, graphic descriptions of wartime brutality. i think that's all, please comment to let me know if i missed anything!</p>
            </blockquote>





	a well oiled machine.

Gaby Teller knows exactly what she’s doing when she’s up to her elbows in engine grease. The way the engine _hums_ in response to her tinkering; _mewls_ once she’s done with it. Give her a half-dead car and she’ll make it purr, breathe life back into it with _ease_ , make it go again without any fuss. Cars, she can _understand_ , cars, she can pull apart, put back together again – _hell_ , they might even run more smoothly than they did when they were brand new.

 _Machines_ she can fix with her eyes closed and both hands tied behind her back (maybe not, but the thought fuels her ego) – Illya Kuryakin, despite the rumours, despite the quips, despite what he tells himself over and over before he falls asleep at night, is _not_ a machine. She doesn’t know where to begin with him.

So, when his breathing (quick and harsh, like he’s just been smothered, like he’s just been drowning – and maybe he _has_ ) wakes her at some miserable hour of the morning, she pretends she doesn’t hear – rolls over and goes back to sleep.

But he must have heard her stir, because he locks himself in the bathroom a minute later – she hears running water, the plastic rings of the shower curtain scraping against the metal rod, as he draws it back.

(Within the tiny, tiled room, the mirror turns opaque with steam – the scolding hot water hits his skin and it _burns_ , makes him want to rip away at his flesh. And his eyes are red with tears – _Crying! You coward! You’re a boy, you’re a child, grow up, you’re not a man. Men don’t **cry**_ – he wishes he’d melt beneath the impossible ache of the water, wishes it’d lick away at the flesh covering his bones, wishes it’d sear his insides, wash him out, make him clean again.

There’s a certain desperation in the way he screws his eyes shut, blinks away those shameful tears – he brings a hand to his chest, grasps at it, does his best to claw his way through flesh and muscle and sinew, to get at the organ beneath, to tear it to shreds, to rip it from its cavity and crush it beneath his boot.

He’s a machine, he’s a machine, he’s a machine. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t feel, he’s a _machine_. He'll smother emotion, break his own heart, bite down on feeling, before he lets it consume him.

And still, he bites his tongue, afraid she might hear.)

Gaby isn’t sure how long he stays hidden away in there – sleep swallows her up before he returns. 

-

The second time it happens, she sits up to look at him – head in his hands, hair clinging to the sweat that cakes his forehead. And he won’t look at her, won’t acknowledge her – not even when she asks, again and again, _how can I help? What can I do? Tell me what I can do._

-

The ninth time it happens, she almost _pleads_ with him.

-

The tenth time, she moves toward him.

He doesn’t fight her off, doesn’t say a word. Not when she takes his hands in his own, not when she’s pressing kisses to his knuckles (white, stretched _thin_ over the bones), not when she’s pressing a palm to his cheek, not when she’s laying him down, not when she’s curling up next to him.

He doesn’t say a word, only holds her hand a little bit tighter.

But that doesn’t fix it, either. She wakes up, and he’s gone, won’t look at her all day, only ever responds when he has to.

-

So she tries to pull him apart, in any way she can. Tries to get under his skin, force it all out of him, expose him, rip his insides out and lay them all bare, so that she might rearrange them all and stuff them back down his throat.

It begins with her hand around the neck of a bottle – drinks are forced down quickly, four in a row and her head’s spinning – too much, too fast. She hasn’t eaten all day.

It ends with her pressed against a wall, teeth bared, near-snarling, her wrists in his grip, she doesn’t bother struggling. She _started_ it, poked and prodded and clawed and scratched until he couldn’t take it any more.

A whirlwind of comments about the KGB, his parents, his country, his rotten, _rotten_ people – invading her own country, her **prideful** Germany, tearing it down, spitting on it between shrieks of laughter, pinning down women, striking children, slaughtering millions.

And he _says_ , through gritted teeth, _hisses_ that she doesn’t know _anything_. His friends, his _brothers_ , shot down by the Germans – some, used as planks, rotting corpses placed beneath German tanks so that they might make it through the mud. And the _Russians_ – his grip on her wrists tightens, leaves them red and raw when she glances down at them hours later – would rather see their own people drown in their own blood (face down in the snow, decaying, freezing over) than face defeat at the hand of Germany. 

You are not a _fool_ , Gaby, **_stand_ _down_**.

She waves the white flag, cries _uncle_ , turns her face away and he lets her go, lets the door slam shut behind him.

(She doesn’t see his _face_ as he leaves – eyes dark, set on nothing, lips pressed thin, teeth biting down so hard any sensible person might worry about him breaking them.

If she had, she might’ve gone after him.)

-

Apologising isn’t her strong suit. There was never any need for it in East Berlin – she’d snarl at offices and _spit_ through blood-soaked teeth, yell profanities as she ran from them, laughed as the night air chipped away at her ice-covered bones. She could get away with it, never remorseful, never suffering consequence. She was too clever for them (it’s a good thing, maybe, that Waverly had snatched her up before she had the chance to make a mistake she might not have recovered from).

But she does it anyway, because there’s a throbbing within her chest (vibrating in her ears, she feels it behind her eyes. But maybe that’s the liquor, too.) that doesn’t go away when the bottle’s half empty. She sits beside him and keeps her gaze low, on her hands.

(Her wrists didn’t bruise, he notes, as he glances toward them frantically, looking elsewhere before she can notice.)

“I didn’t, um –“

“It’s alright.”

Is it? Something about his tone seems forced.

“No. It’s – I didn’t _know_. I didn’t know. I didn’t think about it.”

And finally, he glances up, meets her eyes. It’s a soft gaze, but it finds her soul within seconds, and the guilt rises up, bile in her throat. She should have kept her damn mouth _shut_.

 “I’ve only ever lived on my side of the war. The war took my father from me. The war took my _mother_ from me. And then, the war took my home from me. The _Russians_ took my home from me.”

And there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, at that – something, recognition, maybe, regret, guilt, she doesn’t know, can’t tell. She used to be so good at reading people.

He _understands_.

“And that was _it_. I didn’t think about what we had taken from _you_. I don’t think I cared.”

“It’s _alright_.”

“ _Illya_. Let me, just – I’m sorry. I didn’t _think_. It’s just – I just. I’m sorry – it’s, I shouldn’t have said all those things about –”

He’s not sure what it is. Maybe he doesn’t want to listen to her talk anymore (it’s probably not that), maybe he doesn’t want to hear about the war – about the blood of his brothers that her kin had once bathed in (it’s probably that). So he’s leaning forward, pressing his lips to hers, mouthing something in Russian against her skin.

They take a minute or two to get into the rhythm of it (neither are inexperienced, but Gaby hadn’t been expecting it, and Illya doesn’t know how _gentle_ he should be), before he’s bringing a palm to press against her cheek, and sliding his tongue past her lips.

God, she almost _shudders_. If this is what she’s been waiting for – she shifts a little closer – then it was worth the wait.

-

When it’s her turn, she doesn’t have the chance to hide it – not like he really did, either.

She wakes with his hand on her shoulder – gentle, but firm, urging her awake.

He’s saying something to her, in that thick, **_Russian_** accent. And she _shrieks_ , pulls away violently, throws a punch without thinking – her head’s a mess, cloudy and still swimming in the events behind her eyelids. Her fist collides with his nose and he yelps (more surprise, than pain), drawing back, holding his face as blood runs past his lips, gathers at his chin, and drips, staining the carpet of their hotel room.

(How will they explain _that_ one? An accident, a nosebleed, what does it matter.)

He doesn’t ask for an apology, and she doesn’t go back to sleep – she sits, legs pulled to her chest, by the windowsill, tired eyes watching the city as it pulses and shifts. It looks so loud, but she can’t hear a thing. It brings her comfort to think that there might be someone else out there, gazing at the window of her hotel room, thinking she’s just another cog in the system. Nobody – free from suffering and all wrongdoing.

It was an accident, she dips her head, presses her forehead to her knees. It was an _accident_ ; she sobs, quietly, hopes he doesn’t hear.

It was an accident, he dabs at the drying blood with a tissue, he knows.

-

At his core, Illya is capable of compassion – god, he _feels_ , hates that he does, now and then, but certainly, he _does_ – but words of empathy sound foreign on his tongue. So his words are set aside, lest she think they’re hollow.

Instead, he sits beside her, watches the sunrise as she dries her eyes, wraps a strong arm around her shoulders, anchors her to this world, anchors her to _him_.

She needn’t take comfort in her insignificance. How can she take comfort in something so false?

Instead, he presses small kisses to her cheek, to her jaw – she shifts, so that he can get at her neck, she slides the straps of her nightgown down her shoulders so that he can leave a trail of kisses down the valley between her breasts – hikes up her skirt, so that he might bury his face between her thighs.

And he wonders, for a moment, if he ever really needed to stamp out that lingering ember of his heart to begin with, because she wraps her tiny hands around the tattered organ, and warms it without thinking, without _meaning_ to.

He only hopes he can do something for her in return.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are always appreciated !!! sorry for the typos, if there are any. i'm v tired atm. im also worried this might be a lil ooc for both of em but ..... im tired and i just wanted to get this posted.


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